Greatness can seldom be defined,nor does it come with time or victories but from the titanic pursuits of attaining it.It is marked by an unparalled skill and mastery of an art,but this man was not an artist,he was the one who created the art itself.His raquet spoke to the tennis ball giving it instructions of speed,movement and direction, with clinical precision.The art was so fascinating and awestruck that Wordsworth would have declared his sight at Wimbledon more beautiful than the one upon Westminster bridge.
Comparing Pete and Roger is like trying to find out which one is better,the discovery of fire or the invention of the internet.Both the most gigantic feats of their time,so are these two champions.The technical and aesthetic brilliance in Federer's game is unparalled and is only overcome and outsmarted by the brute force and tenacity of a man called Rafa , the only man on the planet who could make look an ordinary player on court.
Heros and Supermen dont cry,but artists do.There has always been this conflict between the art and the artist,one trying to be greater than the other.Most times,as in Roger's case, the art has the last laugh proving the artist that there can be only one masterpiece and it is for which the artist was born and not the vice versa.Roger cried because he realised he can no longer produce that killer forehands which made the coup de grace of his battles in the centre court in the All England Lawn Club,he cried for the art that was in jeopardy and not for his career.
